


Peanuts and Cracker Jacks

by praxithea



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Age Regression/De-Aging, Alternate Universe
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-19
Packaged: 2018-05-14 19:34:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5755612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/praxithea/pseuds/praxithea
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing that makes baseball great isn’t the Red Sox-Yankees rivalry; it isn’t the shared misery of being a Cubs fan; it isn’t the Little League World series, though that’s a little closer. It’s none of the fancy things, really. Baseball is great because of the long afternoons spent palling around the sandlot with teammates. Those hot, hazy days remain in the memory, crawl through the blood. They make you who you are.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Can Throw a Ball, Can't Ya?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @KiaraSayre for the title! This was born out of a late night bus trip complete with The Sandlot as the on-bus entertainment. It became obvious that Bruce is clearly Smalls, Tony is Squints and there's no one but Bucky with a loud mouth that could rival Ham's. I've not planned anything, really. So, I'd say if you're interested (which I hope you are) please expect more of a collection of stories than a cohesively plotted chaptered fic. Fear not, there will be a Tony/Pepper interlude along the lines of Squints/Wendy Peffercorn. Other than that though, if you have any suggestions/recommendations/requests for hijinks for the gang please feel free to share them either here in the comments or you can catch me on tumblr @bitofsilliness.

The mid-afternoon sun was out with a vengeance. It was early June, but with the way the sweat sprung up on the back of Bruce’s neck after a half a block it could have been the end of July. There was a woman beating a rug over the railing of her porch a few blocks down. The men on the street all passed by with their shirtsleeves rolled up and hats in hand. “HEAD’S UP!” a chorus of young voices yelled from the vacant lot repurposed into a baseball field.

Bruce the street hunched his shoulders, threw his hands up to cover the top of his head and looked up. He spotted the high-flying foul ball fairly quickly and relaxed his protective pose. He watched the baseball bounce high off the sidewalk across the street, once in the middle of the street and then roll harmlessly the rest of the way. The baseball came to rest on top of the curbside water grate slightly ahead of him. He walked over, picked it up and looked for someone with their glove up to toss it back to.

“Over here. Thanks, kid!” yelled a brunette boy of about twelve. His hair was curly, shorter on the sides and a bit longer on top. It was matted down with sweat and dust and mussed from the ancient catcher’s mask he held in his right hand. It was one of the old school ones. It just had the padding that rested on the outside of the face (forehead, cheeks by the ears, and chin) and a few loose straps across the back to keep it secure. The black cage at the front was dingy with age and dirt and featured a few bright silver spots suggesting it was held together with duct tape and a whole lotta love.

Bruce crossed the road and walked the ball back to the catcher. “What, can’t you throw a ball?” the boy asked with barely disguised confusion and disdain.

“Bucky! You gotta be more polite!” the kid with the bat shook his head.

“Sorry about him. Sometimes his mouth gets ahead of his brain. I’m Steve. Thanks for bringing our ball back to us,” Steve stuck his hand out. The two boys shook. He was about Bucky’s height with fine blond hair sticking out from below is royal blue hat emblazoned with a ‘B’ that looked vaguely like the Red Sox.

“I’m Bruce,” he said. Bruce was smaller than Steve and Bucky. He had curly hair, kind of like Bucky’s. He might have been small, but he was wiry and there was a lot of energy in his tense muscles. His brown eyes darted around the diamond and made him seem nervous. Makes sense, Steve supposed. He was meeting only the best 8 kids in the neighborhood and all at once no less. They were intimidating, for sure.

“Hey, you wanna play with us?” Steve asked.

“What, now?” Bruce answered.

“But we don’t even know if he can _throw_ , Steve,” Bucky protested.

“I can tell you Steve needs to swing earlier to stop the ball from going out of the field. Unless that’s a good thing, then, keep your timing as it is,” Bruce said.

“Ya, ya, Steve needs to keep the ball between the lines, more like it,” yelled a kid from third base. “We’ll start calling him the Failure of Fouls pretty soon!” He had light brown hair cut short, a purple shirt and a butterfly bandage over his nose. He was chuckling to himself clearly proud of the potential nickname.

“That’s what I keep saying, Bruce! There’s a science to baseball! No one wants to listen to me, though. ‘It’s an art, Tony, not science’ they say. ‘Forget soccer, Tony, baseball is the beautiful game!’ they say. No, jerks, it’s science. It’s physics and it’s still beautiful. It’s nice to find someone who finally understands the truth,” a boy yelled from second. His shirt was neon orange with neon blue accents. It coordinated perfectly with his neon blue shorts with orange accents. His sneakers were mostly black, but did feature neon orange and blue as predicted. He was a walking billboard for Under Armour.

“Yeah, I know. It’s just Natasha’s fastball is gettin’ faster and sometimes it catches me off,” Steve said with a smile and a jerk of his head to the pitcher’s mound. Natasha stood there with her arms crossed. Her glove was tucked up under her right arm. Her hips were cocked to the right and there was a slight smirk on her face. Bruce was shocked that she could wear all black on a day like this. It didn’t even look like she was breaking a sweat.

Bruce didn’t know where to focus or who to pay attention to. They all talked at the same time and loudly like they were used to talking over each other. Steve seemed nice though. And Bucky might’ve had a big mouth, but he was smiling at least.

“So whaddya say? Want to play some ball with us?” Steve asked again.

“We need a ninth, bro! You’d be doing us a favor,” a tall, black boy yelled from first base. He was easily the tallest on the team, but was lanky, too. He wore all grey, which showed the sweat around his collar and under his arms. He had a big, toothy grin complete with a slight gap between his two front teeth. Bruce smiled back.  


Bruce paused to survey the last two members of the team. Both were in the outfield. There was a girl in bright maroon sneakers sitting on the ground picking the dandelions around her. It looked like she might be making a flower crown, but she would sporadically pop the head off a flower. She looked up and made eye contact with Bruce. She smiled and waved. Bruce wasn’t quite sure what to think.

Finally, there was boy with blondish hair and dark roots. He was fidgety and started jogging toward the girl in right field. His sneakers were silver and not a color Bruce had ever seen before. They were too bright from this distance as if they had been spray-painted. He said something to the girl on the ground. She gestured toward home plate where Steve, Bruce and Bucky were standing. The boy looked up, flashed a smile and jogged back to center.

“You just going to stand there? We could use a fan club. Would you rather do that? Stand and watch?” Bucky huffed after Bruce’s silence.

“I mean, I have to go home at the moment. My mom’s expecting me, but if you guys are here tomorrow, I guess I could play for a bit,” Bruce said.

Steve smiled and grabbed the ball from Bucky. “Put your mask on Buck, we’ve still got work to do. See ya tomorrow, Bruce, 9 am. This is serious business.”


	2. First Thing's First

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce's first base running lesson.

“Being fast isn’t the key base running,” Pietro said to Bruce.

“You can’t just say that. You call yourself Quicksilver and we only give you a little bit of shit for a reason, man. Speed is important. As is grace. You see these gangly legs? Yeah, they’ll be the death of me out here. Tripped once rounding second, ball came in from right field and there I was, a sitting duck,” Sam said from first base.

“As I was saying, if you’re smart you don’t have to be fast,” Pietro continued.

“Yeah, but you gotta admit it helps,” Bucky chimed in from behind the plate.

“Anyone else want to teach the new kid to run the bases?” Pietro asked the group. “Didn’t think so. Here, stand in the batter’s box.”

Bruce set his feet shoulder width apart, bent his knees and shifted his weight 70% to his back foot. He stacked his hands right on left and raised the level with and 6 inches in front of his right armpit. The wooden bat felt heavy in his hands and the top seemed a bit wobbly.

“Look at that form!” Steve yelled from shortstop.

Bruce started to blush as he puffed his chest out. So what if he stood in the mirror for a half hour last night after the batting lesson Steve gave him. It paid off. His hips felt like they were in the wrong place, though. Was his butt sticking out? More time in the mirror was necessary.

“Elbow up, champ,” Bucky supplied quietly from behind his mask. “Might help to breathe, too. He’s gonna make you run ‘til you wanna puke. Ready?”

“Running to first is easy. Swing, drop the bat like you hit the ball, and run straight through first. No, Nat, you’re not pitching. Go throw in the outfield with Wanda or something,” Pietro said.

“I’m coming, too. No one ever practices running to third. It’s like second base is more important. Who cares? You’re only halfway home. Rounding third is critical, but who pays attention to it? No one,” Clint started his rant at a high volume lessening as he went on. He kicked the dirt once and jogged out to Wanda. “Think we could get Nat to play 500 with high flies?”

“Maybe. You haven’t been injured in how long? We should have a sign ‘It’s been so many days since Clint’s last injury’ so we all know when to expect the next one. We could replace the numbers on it like they do on the Green Monster,” Wanda replied.

“Wouldn’t matter, we’d never get over one day,” Nat said as she ruffled Clint’s hair. He groaned. Wanda chuckled. The three set up a triangle and began tossing the ball between them.

Back at the plate, Pietro asked, “You ready, Bruce? Swing whenever you want, then run to first.”

“Hey batta-batta, swing batta-batta, swing!” Tony yelled from second.

There was a collective huff from the team. Tony had yelled himself hoarse the day before during Bruce’s batting lesson. He had put on his most ridiculous old-timey radio announcer voice and went to town calling play-by-play. It seemed that before each pitch, Tony would scream the phrase. Bruce had been glad that Tony’s play-by-play was more a stream of all his thoughts. Sometimes it was entertaining. Especially when Natasha stalked him around the field calmly explaining that the phrase was meant to support the pitcher and distract the batter and if it didn’t do that then it was useless. Bruce remembered feeling uneasy at Tony’s flailing in the face of Natasha’s stone cold calm.

“You say that one more time, Stark, and I’m gonna string you from the flag pole on the first day of school,” Bucky threatened.

“Can it! All of you,” Steve said. He glared at Bucky whose mouth was already open to respond. “Anytime now, Bruce.”

“What, I just swing?” Bruce asked.

“Yeah, like take a practice swing and pretend it’s Tony’s head. You’ll always make contact with that ugly mug,” Bucky said.

“Okay, okay, got it,” Bruce said. He stepped his left foot twelve inches out and brought his hands through the zone. At the same time he shifted his weight from his back foot to his front foot and squished the bug with his back foot to square his hips to the field. He swung until the bat hit his opposite shoulder.

“Run!” Pietro yelled.

Bruce brought the bat forward as he stepped out of the batter’s box. Unsure what to do with it he carried it in front of him with two hands. He was halfway down the baseline when he realized Tony was on the ground clutching his stomach with laughter. Steve was on his way from shortstop and lifted Tony into a sitting position. Clint, Wanda and Nat had stopped their game of catch. Nat’s head was tilted to the side. Clint was scratching the back of his head. Wanda just kind of shrugged and asked Nat to show her the grip for a curveball again.

“Bruce, dude. You, uh,” Sam tried to catch his breath through the laughter. “Don’t bring the bat with you. You need to drop it at the plate after you hit the ball.”

“Oh, um, right,” Bruce blushed on his way back to the plate. He had made it three steps before first.

“Sorry. I didn’t make it clear, did I? Oh and you should run full speed through the bag. Don’t stop before you get there. And when you turn to go back to first, turn right. Stay in foul territory or they can tag you out. Got it? Drop the bat, full speed through the bag, turn right,” Pietro coached him on the way back to the plate.

“No, it’s okay. I know they don’t run with the bat to first base. I don’t know what happened,” Bruce said. He did know that, but he couldn’t for the life of him figure out what they did do with the bat after a hit. The cameras on TV were so quick to show you where the ball went. The bat was just magically gone. Sometimes after a home run a player would drop the bat like a mic drop, but Bruce’s dad always complained about showboating. So, no mic drop of the bat then.

“You got this. Just relax and run to first,” Steve clapped his right hand against his glove a few times and smiled at Bruce.

“Tony regularly falls when running out of the batter’s box. I’ll remind him if he says anything more,” Bucky said.

Bruce set back up in his stance. His hands were sweaty and slipping on the bat. He tightened his grip a bit. He stepped forward, closed his eyes, swung through the zone and then there was no weight in his hands.

“Aw, hell. I guess it’s a good thing no one likes running to third! That could have been me,” Clint yelled from right. The bat had flown from Bruce's swing. It bounced once before third and rolled across the dirt. It had come to rest against the bag. 

Bruce stood astride the batter’s box. He scrubbed his hands across his eyes and brought his hands down to his sides. He clenched his fists, digging his fingernails into his palm. His jaw was tight.

“Glaring a hole in the ground ain’t gonna change anything,” Bucky said.

“Shut up,” Bruce replied.

“Whoa, pal. Just stating a fact. Maybe we should switch drills?” Bucky asked.

“No. I am going to get this. End. Of. Story.” Bruce started stalking to the bat. 

Steve jogged in and conferred with Bucky and Pietro. Bruce didn’t hear much, but did hear Bucky mutter, “Hulking out or something.”

Bruce tried to match his breathing to his steps, right foot in, left foot out. Just like his mom taught him. His knuckles were white as he unfolded his fist. There were indents from his fingernails, but it didn’t look like he drew blood this time.

“Hey, buddy,” Steve said.

Bruce grunted in Steve’s direction as he reached home.

“Here, let me show you,” Steve took the bat from Bruce. He set up, swung and dropped the bat with his left hand slightly behind him and took two steps out of the box.

“But your swing didn’t hit your opposite shoulder! How was I supposed to know that? What the hell?” Bruce yelled.

Steve’s eyes widened briefly. He set his mouth in a thin line. “I didn’t think of it. Sorry,” Steve said.

Bruce took a few more breaths. Steve seemed sincere. Not even Tony was laughing. Maybe it wasn’t a big trick to humiliate him.

“Wanda, Nat, Clint, why don’t you come in? We’ll all run some sprints,” Sam called. “Let’s go, Tony. Take Bruce to the back of the line. Tell him the legend of Thor’s epic home run. Promise to show him the mark on the brick wall after we run. Whatever you do, don’t talk about the physics of throwing the bat from home plate to third base.”

“Line up, everyone. Take a fake swing, run to first, circle right and jog back to rejoin the line. We’ll all go to first once, then second, then third, then all the way home,” Steve instructed the group.

“Come with me, big guy. My have you been working out since yesterday? You’re swole, man!” Tony grabbed Bruce’s bicep to usher him to the back of the line.

“Flattery will get you no where,” Bruce said quietly.

“It'll get me every where. Just you wait and see," Tony said. Bruce glared at him.

"Right, well has anyone ever told you about our traveling friend, Thor? No, he’s not in the circus, though he could be. World’s Strongest Kid! Real freak show material. Anyway, he once hit this home run, towering doesn’t even begin to cover it…” Tony started spinning the local folklore.

Bruce tuned Tony out. He could keep himself busy for the rest of practice. Instead, Bruce studied each of his teammates as they ran to first. Wanda seemed to float down the base path. Bruce blinked once while Pietro ran to first and he still felt like he didn’t see anything. Nat was a mixture of power and grace. Sam was all angles as he ran, but got there well enough. Clint’s toe dragged over the top of the bag. He stumbled, threw his arms out for balance. He turned to the group and did a little bow to a collection of groans and guffaws. Steve was efficient and determined; he had that perfect form like he was running in the movies. Bucky had a casual ease to his strides and was just as fast as Steve. Tony went and was a blur of red. Then it was Bruce’s turn.

He had it under control. Step, swing, squish the bug and run. He made it to first, turned right and jogged back to the line. Sam clapped him on the back. Steve was smiling so hard there were crinkles at the corner of his eyes. Bucky made eye contact with Bruce, pointed at Steve with his thumb and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “This chump, huh?” but was smiling anyway.

“Nicely done,” Tony said. He extended his hand for a high five.

“I’m not dumb,” Bruce answered.

Tony raised one eyebrow. “No one thought you were.”

Wanda started the line again and ran to second. Everyone followed suit. She started them again in their respective trips to third. After his turn, Pietro joined the line beside Bruce. “I’m sorry. I could have been better at explaining,” he said.

“Maybe,” Bruce scuffed the dirt.

“It’s just there’s so much. I forget sometimes,” Pietro tried again.

“You’re telling me,” Bruce said. He smiled at Pietro. “Thanks for trying. I think I’ve got the basics at least.”

“Wait until we teach you to slide!” Pietro said as he stepped up for his turn to run the full set of bases.

Bruce groaned as Pietro took off. He was rounding second when Steve stepped up to Bruce. Steve tossed his arm around Bruce’s shoulders. “You’re doing great. Go easy on yourself,” Steve said. “Also, we might want to clear the batter’s box.”

Pietro was rounding third to Clint’s cheers of “What a sick turn!” as Steve guided Bruce to the opposite side of the plate. “Watch this,” Steve directed. About five feet from the plate, Pietro threw his arms out in front of himself and went sliding into home headfirst.

“You didn’t see that coming?” Pietro asked Bruce. Smirking, he stood and wiped the dirt from the front of his shirt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Full disclosure, this rate of production is unsustainable, but I'll be damned if I don't enjoy it while it lasts. Hopefully you do, too!


End file.
